


Shot Caller

by writerspassion18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Complicated Relationships, Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Death Eaters, Deception, Double Life, Good Death Eaters, Imprisonment, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerspassion18/pseuds/writerspassion18
Summary: After twelve years and becoming the "wife" of a notorious Death Eater, Hermione may finally be able to redeem herself for all of the terrible things she's done in this life. All it took was for her to get her hands dirty and to straddle the sides of villain and hero.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 48
Kudos: 76





	1. Pretty Prisons

_The mission had gone wrong. They had been as quiet as a church mouse, but dear Merlin it was that time of year where the trees had decided to die and shed their no longer green friends. The ground had been littered with the crispy remains of freshly fallen leaves and that's what it took. After all of the preparation, after all of the drills, after all of those years of magical training in spells, curses, charms, and even dark magic, that their downfall would be at the hand of a badly positioned footstep and the gentle crunch that gave away their position._

_Everything that happened after that was a blur —partly because of how fast it occurred, but also because at the end of it all, someone had barbarically hit him over the head with something hard and heavy. He remembered flashes of red, white, blue, and green. A lot of green. He remembered someone tugging on his arm and trying to pull him along, but his feet hadn't been cooperating. He remembered feeling warm and wet liquid sliding down the side of his face, tickling his cheek as it made its way down and dangling into a drop at the base of his chin before falling onto the pavement. He remembered flexing his hand, acutely aware that his arm hurt and that his wand wasn't in its grasp. He remembered an explosion that knocked him and his teammate clean off their arses and careening onto the street, rolling until their bodies collided with the solid walls of buildings behind them._

_Before Charlie blacked out, he recalled several people —perhaps four or five —gather around him, and of that group one with his wand raised. He expected to be killed, but someone new parted the group and stood next to the attacker who seemed keen on ending his life._

_"Stop," ordered a female voice he thought he knew, but couldn't possibly be hearing. "It wouldn't be wise to kill him."_

_"Why not? He's one of them."_

_"Precisely. We could use him."_

_A scoff came from the holder of the wand that was still aimed at his bruised and bloody form. Anger was there too, but also restraint and a resigned sigh as though he didn't want to upset the woman. "Are you suggesting that we bring him_ _**home** _ _?"_

_So, they lived together. He must be her husband. Wonderful. A husband and wife duo had effectively rendered him and his friends useless._

_"Yes," she answered him. "I've had enough of your hasty decisions and this," she pointed to Charlie, "won't be one of them. Half of his team is dead and the other half took off. If you want anything to show for it, then he comes with us._ _**Now** _ _."_

* * *

With slow blinks Charlie opened his eyes and found himself laying spread eagle with the ceiling and a dangling lightbulb as a view. He didn't have to guess to know that he was in a prison cell. He had been in one before, and it had been a bloody miracle to get him out of there. Now that he was in one again, he began weighing the options about whether luck would strike twice. However, things were a bit more dire now, weren't they? Their numbers were dwindling. As he had overheard, half of his friends were now dead, thus effectively lowering their numbers further.

Charlie swallowed a lump in his throat, his mouth dry and insufficient saliva to help ease his discomfort. Laying on a hard, concrete ground wasn't helping the situation either. With a grunt and groan, he rolled over onto his left. Despite the inside of the cell being (moderately) well-lit, the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. The light of his cell had only partly illuminated the person who was sitting on a chair in front of the cell's bars, and what Charlie had seen was enough to make him forget about the possible concussion he had or the aches and pains his body had endured.

Charlie crawled backwards and pressed his body against the back wall of the cell. The woman watched him with a tilted head, her eyes never once leaving him, and her face one of impressive impassion considering the relationship that they once had. It was a friendship that Charlie had thought died long ago. He thought that _she_ had died long ago. The voice that he had heard had, indeed, been hers, and so many questions were swirling within him and kickstarting a headache that pulsated behind his eyes. Charlie blinked, and he half-expected to find the witch gone, but she was still there.

"Hello, Charlie," Hermione said softly. Charlie rubbed at his eyes, but no, she was still there. This presumably dead witch, who hadn't been seen by anyone for the past twelve years, was as real as could be. It made the redhead's heart soar with relief, but also sore with agony and confusion, as he still remembered the conversation that was had moments before he became unconscious.

"H-Hermione?" Charlie croaked out. "What's going on—?"

"—You are not permitted to speak to her," a new voice said. Charlie recognized him as the one who had wanted to kill him. Antonin Dolohov, so it appeared, as he emerged from the shadows and stood next to Hermione. Charlie had already been perplexed, but he was even more so now as he recalled his tone of voice towards her. The evident care that he had for her. Even if Charlie hadn't believed what he had heard, he had to believe what he was seeing. Hermione, clad in a brown, silk, sleeveless shirt, white dress pants, and white heeled open-toed shoes, adorned in jewelry which included a set of pearl earrings and a necklace to match, and a large diamond ring on her left hand. Dolohov's own right hand was resting on Hermione's shoulder, his thumb gently caressing her skin.

"You and your lot were foolish to try to attack us," Dolohov said. "While I would prefer to kill you, my partner in crime has other ideas for you."

Charlie's eyes switched from Dolohov to Hermione when he said "partner-in-crime." It made his stomach lurch and his skin itch, albeit the latter was consequence of Dolohov's manhandling. Although it was too rough of a term for the gentle petting —the small circles of this thumb where Hermione's bra strap would be, the up and down motion of his forefinger along the side of her upper arm —it shouldn't be happening. It felt like a violation —a violation of natural order and sexual assault.

There was no flinching from Hermione. No sign that it bothered her. No clue that she was an unwilling participant in this…whatever the hell it was. The cherry on top was placing her ring hand over Dolohov's. What seemed like an attempt to stop him was merely access for him to hold it tenderly.

"You are going to be very useful, Weasley," Dolohov continued. "You are going to answer every question presented to you —after some persuading, of course."

"Do whatever you want to me. I won't tell you anything, so you might as well kill me."

Dolohov and Hermione looked at each other simultaneously. With a sigh, Hermione rose from her seat and walked over to the bars of the cell. Seeing her closer now didn't make Charlie's comprehension of what was going on here any better. He gulped, taking a moment to make his way to the bars. Maybe outside of Dolohov's line of sight he would be able to see it. Her pleas for help. The widening of her pupils. A frown. Moving lips and soundless words begging for his aid. None of that came. Instead, she lowered herself down in a squat so that she could be eye-level with him.

"Antonin, leave us be."

"What you say to him can be said in front of me."

"He has a fighter's spirit," Hermione said without turning to him. Her eyes were solely focused on Charlie as she continued, "Until you break him, he won't say anything of use to you or to me. Your presence here merely brings out defiance." She finally twisted her body so that she could meet Dolohov's gaze. He was upset, clearly, but she knew this man. She had spent the last ten years with him in various states of belonging. She was safe from harm —for now, at least. "Give me tonight, and do what you want with him tomorrow."

Dolohov continued to hold Hermione's stare for countless seconds until he let go a disgruntled huff and disappeared into the darkness behind him. Charlie was only sure that he was gone when he heard a door slam shut. He winced from the sound, but not Hermione. She merely focused on the redhead before her, a frown finally crossing her lips and making her image more like the witch he knew.

Charlie parted his lips, poised with so much to say, so many questions to ask, but everything fell short. What he did do, however, was close his eyes when Hermione put her hands through the cell bars and cupped his face. The old notion of "men don't cry" was quickly thrown through the window as tears welled up in his eyes and fell down his cheeks. She was real. She was alive. This was _real._ She was alive, real, and…with Dolohov?

"Why are you here?" Charlie whimpered. He sniffled and licked away his salty tears mixed with dried blood, but more continued to fall. "We thought you were dead. We looked for you for two years before we gave up hope!"

"I believe you," Hermione said calmly. One hand cupped his left cheek while her free hand ran through his hair and down the other side of his face. Even her constant swiping couldn't sway the flow of his sobbing. "I was held hostage in Spain in the beginning, then I was in France for a few years. I've only been in England for the past two. So, you see, it's not your fault that you couldn't find me. You had no idea where to look."

Charlie hung his head low, regret and disappointment replacing the physical pain that he felt. Telling him where she'd been wasn't helping. It just meant that neither he nor the rest of them were adept at following the clues to her. To be captured and held hostage all this time was—

"Why aren't you in a cell?" Charlie asked suddenly. Hermione stopped her fondling as Charlie grabbed her wrists and gently moved them from his face. "Death Eaters don't let their hostages roam free." His eyes assessed her attire yet again, the ring, the pearls, her unblemished skin, and once again reflected on the affection Dolohov had shown her amidst his annoyance with her. "They certainly don't dress their hostages so well or give them jewelry."

Hermione's face turned hard and she extricated her hands from his grip with a wriggle and rose to her full height. Looking down at him, she took a deep breath and folded her arms. "It's complicated, Charlie."

"Complicated?" Charlie repeated. " _What_ exactly is complicated?"

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, taking a moment to lift her eyes to the ceiling. It might have been a trick of the light, but he thought that he saw her eyes water. When her attention returned, her face was steely and firm, very reminiscent of what he had seen on Death Eaters over the years. It chilled his insides. "Surviving."

"That word suggests a struggle and hardship," Charlie wet his lips. "I don't see a single wrinkle on that face of yours or that silk shirt."

In addition to her cold expression, the corner tilt of her lips further distorted her image. She let her arms fall and her manicured hands were clutching the bars. "I seem to recall a young boy in my Year at Hogwarts who struggled and had hardship while plotting the death of an already dying professor. While his clothes were pristine, there was, indeed, the creasing of the forehead, if anyone cared to notice. Everyone struggles differently, Charlie. While it may not look like it, every day I'm ashamed of the things that I've had to do to make it to where I am."

That sobered Charlie. Despite the pain in his joints, he slowly stood up, using the bars for support, his hands just above hers. He was a full head and a half taller than the witch, and yet somehow she stared him down like he was two feet. Charlie's heart was breaking, and he didn't want to ask, but he needed to know before his mind made up its own scenarios that were worse than reality.

"What have you done, Hermione?"

The brunette had taken her lip between her teeth again, but released it quickly to ask her own question. "Have you ever been captured, Charlie?"

"Three times."

"For how long?"

"A couple days for two of them. Two months for the last."

Hermione paused for a moment. She seemed to be mulling over his response before a loud chuckle bounced off of the dungeon walls as she bluntly replied, "You're a shit fighter." Charlie blinked back his surprise while she moved away from the cell and returned to her seat, lazily dangling her right ankle as she crossed her legs. "Two years, Charlie. For two years I was away from home, away from you and the others, locked away in a cell three times as small as what you're in now. I was beaten. I was hexed and cursed. I was raped. _For two years._ Do you know what happens to a person when brutality like that happens _every day?_ You stop feeling. When you feel, there's pain. When you don't, when you give up, you can dissociate and pretend that you're not there and that it's not happening.

'That was the only way that I could make it. I became indifferent and I stopped fighting. Sure, it ate away at my pride and dignity at first, but it shortened the days where at first every moment was agony. That's how I spent my time in Spain. It was in France where things really changed. Whereas I had been in some random dismal location, this time I was in a Death Eater's home —Antonin's. A couple of months in I was caged with a muggle who hadn't yet learned how to cope with our unfortunate situation. She was whiny, crying, the whole lot. It wouldn't help her plight, so I told her to be quiet or that I'd make her." Hermione stilled her speech when she saw the look of horror on Charlie's face. She nearly tutted. He hadn't even heard the worst.

"It was insensitive, I know. While one of my many regrets, it was finally quiet. Antonin saw the damage that I had done the next night, and so impressed was he that I haven't been in a cell since. He wanted to put me to good use, you see, and I've been of _very_ good use to him for the past ten years."

Charlie was numb. He only knew he was gripping the cell bars in a death grip because of the lack of color to his knuckles, but that was all. His friend, the woman whom he loved like his own flesh and blood, was describing in so little words atrocities that made his stomach wretch. And for what? So she didn't have to suffer?

"You've tortured people." It wasn't a question. It wasn't an accusation. It was a stated conclusion that Charlie had come to and wanted Hermione to say outright. He waited for several seconds, perhaps minutes, for a reply, watching her watch him as though daring the other to blink.

Hermione did blink, but her response wasn't what Charlie expected nor wanted. "I survived."

"You're justifying hurting innocent people based on survival? Have you killed them too?"

"…I survived."

"You're a monster!" Charlie shouted, jumping back from the bars when Hermione sprung from her seat, sending her chair flying into the darkness.

"I did what I had to do!" she yelled back. "I did whatever low down dirty deed I had to do to make it _here._ To put myself in a position to do what I could never do before. _Help._ "

"Becoming the wife of a sadistic murderer who aids in said murders is helping?" Charlie snorted. Helping who, I wonder?"

Hermione looked down at her left hand. Her diamond ring sat on her middle finger, not her ring finger, and it glittered beautifully although the cells were mostly bathed in darkness. "Companion," she corrected before bringing her gaze back to her prisoner. "Despite Antonin's moderate interest in me, I'm still no pureblood. He would never marry me, only give me a token of a status that mimics it."

" _Moderate_ interest?" Charlie choked. "The man bloody married you, no matter how you put it—"

"—he trapped me," Hermione cut him off. "Antonin has a fascination with the unattainable. In this case with the witch who, by blood, is unfit to be his and who pushes his buttons hard enough make him want to kill me —which he won't. This ring," she lifted her hand so that he could properly see, "has a tracer on it so that it can track me wherever I go and no," she said quickly before Charlie could speak, "it cannot be removed unless Antonin takes it off or, unpleasantly, if I want my finger to go along with it. As for my wand? It might as well belong to a temperamental teenager because it has restrictions on what magic I can produce —nothing that can potentially cause harm.

'So, you see, Charlie, you can hate me all you want for what I've done. I hate myself too. You can also scoff all you like about how lavishly I'm living, but regardless of how it looks, this is still a _prison_ , and Antonin is my warden."

"A warden who lets his prisoner go with him on missions to kill her friends."

"Not all of my friends," she answered simply. "Last I checked that was my doing or else Antonin would have gladly severed your head from your neck."

"Are you expecting a thank you?" Charlie sneered. Hermione simply shrugged.

"It would be nice, but I think you're a bit too preoccupied with my less than savory climb to the top to do such a thing." Hermione retreated into the dark, leaving Charlie to dwell in his cell alone. He still heard her however, as her heels echoed when she walked. "I'll do what I can to keep Antonin from killing you, and hopefully it'll give you time to think and be smart about your next move."

"What, so I can end up in a pretty prison just like you?" Charlie called into the abyss. He heard her laugh, and it sent chills through his limbs.

"No," she countered, "so you can do what I failed to do on my way to this 'pretty prison.'"


	2. Toxic Necessities

It was always an adjustment to light after being down in the cells. Hermione had anticipated this and brought up a hand to shield her eyes, but she didn't need it. Dolohov was waiting and his broad and tall frame had blocked the majority of the light. As it were, Hermione was less concerned with the brightness of the corridor, but rather the hand that had grabbed her by the neck and pushed her against the painting that guarded the entrance to the cells.

"Get off!" Hermione yelled. "Get…off!" She tried to kick at him, but his right leg was between her own legs, and his left caging her right. All she was kicking was the air behind him. She tried swinging her arms onto his, but that barely made him move, and aiming for his eyes or neck was out of reach —literally. "Antonin," she choked, "I can't… I can't breathe!"

"Precisely," Dolohov hissed in her face. He was wise to move his head back before she scratched him. Such a feisty and troublesome witch. Pity that he admired those traits. "Don't think for a second that I don't know what you're doing," he snarled. "You had me spare him because he's one of you. You care nothing for the cause."

Dolohov roughly let her go and Hermione slid down to the floor, gasping all the while and placing a hand where her companion's had just been. She looked up at him between strays of hair that had fallen into her face and huffed.

"Have I _ever_ cared for the cause? You know very well that my actions have always been self-serving, and that, had I the means, I would have already killed you."

"Oh, you have the means," Dolohov countered as he stared down at her, a strange and inappropriate lust in his eyes. "You simply lack the ability."

Dolohov reached out a hand to Hermione and she stared at it with disdain before slipping her own in his. She was only on her feet for a second before he swooped an arm under her legs and another supporting her back so that he could carry her through the halls.

"You could poison me," he offered. "You could take a knife from the kitchen, hide it under the mattress and kill me while I sleep. Hell, you could push me down the stairs. However, at the end of the day there are still a few problems that lay ahead of you."

"Are you going to enlighten me?" Hermione irately questioned. Dolohov glanced down at her and smiled. He had beautiful teeth, she thought, which culminated in a handsome face. Yes, he was older than her by at least twenty years (possibly more), but healthy living gave him a youthful appearance. He was by no means extremely muscular, but he still had a build that was acceptable. His hair was a dark brown with flecks of grey around the ears —the only indication of age. His eyes were a stunning grey and his voice, however sinister it had the potential to be, could also be soothing to the ear.

Hermione hated with all of her being that she found Antonin Dolohov attractive in any way, but she supposed it helped their relationship, if she could truly call it that.

"Your wand is restricted," Dolohov said.

They had made it to their bedroom. It was a lavish room complete with a large bed with a mahogany headboard higher than necessary —perhaps six feet, maybe more. A cream chaise was immediately to the left of the door with a gold trim. Beyond it further to the left was their private bathroom with a walk-up tub big enough to fit ten people and a shower to house six. The rest of the bedroom held two massive bookshelves along the right wall facing the bed, to the right of the door was Hermione's bureau, and directly in front of them were ceiling-to-floor windows and two French doors that led out onto a balcony overlooking a bed of flowers.

Dolohov kicked off his shoes and closed the door with his foot before heading to the bed and setting Hermione on it. "There isn't much that could help you with a wand that can't even cast a simple binding spell."

"I could steal someone else's," Hermione suggested. Dolohov nodded. He took a moment to undo the straps of her shoes, gently giving each foot a press in her often most ached areas.

"Ignoring the technicalities that would be involved, let's say that you succeed. You would have to kill upwards to five or so Death Eaters who visit our home unannounced."

"I'm not afraid to kill."

Dolohov's attention switched from her feet to her face, and his smile was broad and truly genuine. "Yes, I know." He watched as Hermione pushed herself further onto the bed so that she now sat in the middle, her body held up by her forearms. She never undressed herself. Part of it was pride, he was sure, because it meant that she was enticing him on purpose. The remaining part, however, was because there was something arousing of having a man do it for her.

"So, let's see." Dolohov crawled onto the bed, hovering over Hermione, the lower half of her body caged in with his legs. "I'm dead. Obviously, you would have taken off the ring with my demise, and you have taken out however many Death Eaters necessary to escape this house." Dolohov's hand had made it to the buttons on her shirt. He flicked each button effortlessly, thanks to the silk, and his fingers danced from her abdomen and up to the middle of her chest. With a soft whisper as his mouth neared her breasts his eyes flickered up. "The other Death Eaters would go searching for you."

Hermione didn't say anything for a moment. She merely sat up straighter so that she could slip off her shirt and undo the clasp at the back of her bra. With her breasts free she saw the hunger in Dolohov's eyes turn ravenous, and she said only three words. "They could try."

Defiance in any other would turn Dolohov stark-raving mad, but from her? He seemed to relish the idea that Hermione would so openly hate him, challenge him, and threaten him. It was toxic, to say the least, but the world had long ago descended into chaos such that toxicity was the norm. Hermione hadn't been lying when she told Charlie that she hated herself. She hated what she had done, she hated what she was doing, she hated who she was doing it with, and most of all she hated the part of herself that liked it.

It had taken time for Hermione to go from lowly prisoner to the high-class prisoner who had a Death Eater sucking and nibbling at her nipples while he undid his trousers. It had taken time for Hermione to subdue her conscience long enough to convince herself that what she was doing was for the greater good. It had taken time for Hermione to stop closing her eyes when she killed someone. It had taken time for Hermione to get used to the feel of Dolohov's fingers circling her clit and to accept the fact that he actually knew and _cared_ about what he was doing compared to those bloody rapists. It had taken less time for Hermione to enjoy commanding the very Death Eaters who used to taunt and torture her for fun, even less time for her to enjoy Dolohov's teasing as he slipped himself in and out of her at an agonizingly pleasurable and leisurely pace, but more time to admit that she did, indeed, love having sex with the man who had once kept her in a basement.

"Complicated" was too tame of a word, Hermione now realized, but it was all she could come up with to summarize the trajectory of her life.

"What are you thinking about, Hermione?" Dolohov asked. Hermione tilted her head downwards at the big, scary Death Eater who liked to be held after sex. A big romantic baby was what he was.

Her arms held him, and one hand came up to thread her fingers through his hair as she spoke. "If it could work. If everything you said could really and truly work."

"It could," he nodded against her chest. "However, at the end of the day your biggest problem would still be unsolved." He raised his head then, a sadistic smile on his face as he cupped her chin. "Until you figure out a way to kill _him_ , you will never kill _me._ "

* * *

"Again," Hermione ordered.

Charlie's screams filled the room, and no, they weren't in his cell. The house she shared with Dolohov had separate rooms for prisoners and for interrogation. It had been one of her ideas, for her companion, as neat as he kept himself, didn't do much justice for places that weren't his top priority. That said, his cell chambers had often been dingy, messy, and horribly aesthetically pleasing. If she was to be down there, she would _not_ have her eyes and nose assaulted with the stench and sight of death and despair.

Cells were larger than the norm and they held a single lightbulb and no windows. The interrogation rooms, however, were much more elaborate. According to Dolohov, casting a simple _Crucio_ quickly became boring. Hermione confirmed that over time it became easier to numb oneself to the pain after the curse had been cast several times. That, of course, wouldn't do. The interrogation rooms were a Death Eater's dream —such a dream, in fact, that many Death Eaters used their rooms for their own prisoners. It held a table where the prisoner would be kept still with a spell, and all along the walls were potions. Some known. Some rare. Most experimental that both Hermione and Dolohov had spent time creating on their own. Dolohov loved those experimental ones the best because neither he nor she knew exactly what they did unless tested on a poor, unfortunate soul.

Today, Charlie was that soul.

The particular potion of choice came with a dropper. When dropped onto the skin it caused it to burn and erode as though someone had taken a lit cigarette to the skin. Of course, if the drop dripped and slid down, it left a long line of burns until it settled and dried. One of the house Death Eaters that permanently lived with them, who also happened to be Hermione's personal aide and body guard, was doing the honors (at her request) while two others watched.

"I say he drinks it," said one of Death Eaters who stood by the exit. "If that potion does that kind of damage on the outside, imagine on the inside."

"It would kill him," Hermione said emotionlessly as Charlie's screams finally died down. He was completely naked to provide ample skin to experiment with. As it currently stood, his arms and upper thighs were worse for wear and third-degree burns littered his skin. Of course, that was not the only damage to his body. He had been there for two weeks now.

"Is that a problem?"

"Yes, Damien," she angrily replied as she looked away from Charlie and glared at him. "You can't get information from someone who's dead." She held up a hand to her aide and walked over to Charlie, leaning over him.

Charlie was drifting in and out of consciousness, his breathing slow and weak. He wasn't dying, however. His vital signs hovered in the air above him thanks to a Wellness Spell and they were good. Not great, but good enough. Hermione snapped her fingers over his face to gather his attention. Either he was incapable of turning his head or he deliberately didn't want to look at her. No matter. She pulled on his chin so that the conversation seemed less one-sided.

"I admire your bravery, Charlie, but be reasonable. We have the capability to bring you to the brink of death and keep you there for however long it takes. There's a time to fight and a time to yield."

Charlie had been staring past her, but his eyes slowly rotated towards her face and his jaws clenched. "So I can end up like you?"

Hermione didn't reply. She didn't show any emotion at all, for that matter. She merely dropped her hand and took a step back before addressing her personal aide who still held the potion bottle and dropper in his hand.

"Again."

The screams were instantaneous and almost drowned out the sound of apparation. Tinsy the house elf was at her side and Hermione frowned horribly at him. Even in this twisted reality of her life, she still had no tolerance for house elves. Despite her feelings, this was one matter that Dolohov wouldn't budge on. It was a shame that Hermione was often short with the creature because of that fact. It had nothing to do with him —in fact, he was quite sweet in light of her demeanor.

"Tinsy, what I have told you about disturbing me while I'm in here?"

"My apologies Mistress," Tinsy bowed, "but you have a guest."

"Whoever it is can wait."

"It is Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione's attitude changed almost instantly. She thanked Tinsy for telling her and politely asked him to bring Draco into the parlor room. It was after the house elf was gone that she realized the two Death Eaters who stood at the back of the room near the exit were watching her intently. She knew what they were thinking, and it was the same as many others once Draco was involved. They didn't like him. It was nothing personal, truth be told, but rather a set of archaic values that they placed on women.

For all intents and purposes, Hermione was Dolohov's "wife." By old, pureblood standards, that meant that there were certain rules that she was to follow such as deferring important decisions to her husband. At social gatherings, unless in the company of three women or more, she was to be escorted by her husband, her father, father-in-law, or any man her husband deemed fit and trusted at all times. In general day to day, she was not to be alone with a man. This, the torture session, didn't count as it was all business.

The reason Draco was frowned upon by many was because Hermione broke the rules when it came to him. He visited whether Dolohov was there or not, and they often spent hours alone. Rumors of their time together spread like wildfire, and it was often a sore spot between the couple. However, Dolohov allowed it for two reasons. The first was because Draco was Hermione's friend —her _only_ friend. Everyone else were merely associates or subordinates. The second reason was because of the oath. Less lethal than an Unforgiveable Curse but just as binding. Draco was unable to touch her. If he did, he would double over in such agony that he _wished_ he was dead. A horrid compromise, but a compromise nonetheless so that Hermione could feel just a little less alone.

"Warwick," Hermione addressed her aide, "keep at it until he says something worthwhile or he passes out. Whichever comes first. Put him back in his cell when he's done," she added to the Death Eater guards. "If our prisoner ends up dead, both of you will follow him beyond the veil."

She didn't wait for a response from either of them, nor did she think that they would provide one. Hermione excused herself and entered the well-lit hall. There were two interrogation rooms and two entrances —one that led to the main hallway of the house and found behind a statue a few feet away from the portrait that led to the cells. The other entrance was a door to the cells for easy transport of prisoners from one area to the other. Whereas the interrogation area had plenty of light, Hermione opened the door to the cells and was covered in darkness as she always was whenever she stepped foot there. This exit was closer than the other, and once topside and her vision properly acclimated, she continued straight ahead of her across the foyer. The corridor she walked down was short and only held two rooms —a restroom and the parlor room she had instructed Tinsy to escort Draco to.

Hermione eased the door open, a silent action that was further quieted by the lush carpet that masked her heeled footsteps. A small internal chuckle accompanied the sudden realization that she was most often than not wearing some sort of heel. They enhanced her gait and shaped her legs —or so Dolohov said. It was all he ever bought her aside from clothing she would never buy for herself. It suited the clichéd image of a pureblood socialite. Necessary, she supposed, if she was to be the witch on his arm.

However trivial, her attire was the third biggest change in her life. Her change in allegiance was the first, albeit she would fight tooth and nail in saying that it had only become terribly crooked instead of fully derailed. The second change was the man she had just dropped everything to see. Much like with Charlie, it had been years before Hermione had seen Draco again. Eight in fact. She had already been sporting Dolohov's ring for a year and was still flabbergasted at how her skills for survival had managed to capture and maintain Dolohov's interest. Draco, too, had been surprised at her position. Naturally, he knew where she was, but he hadn't known the extent of her imprisonment because he didn't want to know. When an assignment to help rein in rebels brought Draco to France, it was then that he knew, and he only had one question: _"What did you have to do?"_

Like Charlie, Draco knew that Hermione had to have done something worthy of being released from her cage. Unlike Charlie, however, Draco understood. He knew that it was better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path —especially if it was a means to an end. It was over this fact that Hermione bonded with him. She had someone who could see things from her point of view, sympathize, condone her actions, and tell her that everything would be okay. He kept her sane in a world that was seemingly beyond saving.

"You're back early," Hermione smiled as she closed the door behind her. Draco had been staring out of the window overlooking the pond (a lake, really) that was home to a plethora of ducks. Her request, of course, for Dolohov found it pointless. To his credit, he indulged her in a great many things to make her happy, or so she liked to think. It was quite possible that it was simply to stop her from complaining and nagging like the wife she was pretending to be.

"Astoria hates Russia," Draco replied as he turned around. "Too cold, so she says."

"She didn't _have_ to accompany you on your task. Her discomfort is her own fault."

"Of course it is, but there's no telling her that."

Hermione laughed, the urge to hug him present, but expertly controlled as was so many of the actions she was tempted to engage him in. Her eyes caught something held in Draco's hand, but he was aware of where she was looking before she even had the chance. He raised it higher, and it was then that she realized it was a bottle of wine.

"Tinsy," Hermione called, "two…wine glasses." Her words had trailed when she realized that Tinsy already had the wine glasses in his hands. She glanced up at Draco who gave an _I've got it covered_ expression and took the glasses from the creature before he dismissed himself. That was Draco for you. Always prepared. Always steps ahead which could both irate and inspire anyone.

"There _is_ another reason as to why I came back early," Draco said as he sat down on the far left of the couch closest to the window he had been staring out of. It allowed him to still view the lake that he was, admittedly, very fond of. With one brief admiration of the body of water, Draco turned his head to the witch who had sat down on the couch opposite him and wiggled her glass in the air. The bottle of wine was still in the blond's hand. "Aside from the need of me being there dwindling, I heard you had a guest."

Hermione cocked a brow in the air. "Is that so? My, word does travel fast."

"Death Eaters are a gossipy bunch," Draco shrugged. He worked the cork gently yet forcefully, a slight _pop!_ gracing the air once he had finally released it from the wine bottle. He met Hermione halfway who had reached across the coffee table between them with her glass outstretched, pouring a touch more wine than usually recommended for the wine glass' size. It wasn't that he missed the quizzical expression that Hermione had given him, but rather he ignored it. With his own glass filled, bottle on the coffee table, and his back comfily against the couch, he took a deep breath.

"It was unwise of you to stop Dolohov from killing your friend," he said as he took a sip. "You've only doomed him to weeks of torture before his eventual death."

_So that was what the extra wine was for_ , Hermione thought. Or wine in general. Discussing hard or overall depressing things were always better when one was knocking on the door of inebriation. Hermione accelerated that process by gulping down half of her wine in one go.

"…I hadn't seen any of my friends for twelve years," she admitted softly. "When I saw him I just… I couldn't let him die. Not right then."

"I understand, but realities can't be ignored."

"I don't need you to tell me that. I'm the one in charge of his torture."

"Unfortunate bloke," Draco tutted, drinking more of his wine before reaching for the bottle to refill. "Your potions are lethal."

"Compliment or adding to my misery?" Hermione questioned, half-serious, half-joking, she saw the corners of Draco's mouth tug downwards and immediately she knew the lecture that was coming.

"You can't straddle both sides, Hermione. You know this. Furthermore, if he does give you valuable information, what if it leads you to the rest of your lot? Would you be able to do to them what you're doing to him now? How many could you torture until it broke you?"

They were rhetorical, Draco's questions, but Hermione thought on them anyway. Truth be told, she didn't know how many of her friends were still alive. Ragtag teams of locals occasionally caused disturbances, but rarely ever were any orchestrated by the main rebels —what remained of the Order. That led her to believe that there weren't many of them left or they were simply picking and choosing their battles carefully. What if, however, she did come across more of them? What if she saw Ron? Other Weasleys? Neville, Luna, or Dean? Despite outward appearances, torturing Charlie had taken a toll on her mental and emotional well-being. That was why she had Warwick doing the actual torturing even if she was calling the shots. Despite it being no difference, a part of her felt less guilty if his screams weren't caused by her hand directly.

"Hermione."

Hermione broke free of her thoughts to find that Draco had come to share the couch with her. He had taken up the furthest end of the three-person seat, but there was a consequence to Dolohov's oath with Draco. The pair had learned that intimacy didn't always require touch. Draco's hand lay between them, palm side up. Hermione inhaled deeply and slowly inched her hand over, palm side down. She got as close as she could without hurting him —a centimeter apart. They looked up at each other, all of the words that they wanted to say remaining unsaid because it wouldn't matter in the end.

"In these few years I've never asked for details of what you had to do to get to where you are," Draco said softly. "What I do know is that it was a long and arduous process. It'll be a faster one to bring you back down if you hedge. Don't make this mistake again."

"I won't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione was a bit apathetic in the last chapter. I'm a bit curious as to how you feel about her now after her talk with Draco.
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!
> 
> -WP


	3. Green

Hermione finished off the bottle of wine with Draco before he left. She wasn’t drunk, no, but she wasn’t completely sober either. Had she been more alert, she would have been aware of when Dolohov had entered the room. She was sitting where she had been before Draco left, her head laying on the backrest, eyes closed, and enjoying the quiet. She finally realized that she wasn’t alone when Dolohov’s hands settled on her shoulders and he kneaded them like dough. The man may have been a ruthless killer, but he also had a gentleness that would put the kindest soul to shame.

“Did you enjoy your time with Malfoy?” he asked, his thumbs rolling along the base of her head. His voice was low and steady, a hint of a warning in his tone. Hermione opened her eyes. No obvious emotion for her to decipher, but it wasn’t very hard to figure him out.

“Problem, love?”

“…Must he come at night?”

Soft. Genuine. Hesitant.

Hermione stilled his hands, raised her head, and twisted her body so that she could look at him. His face was still expressionless, but his body was rigid as he gripped the back of the couch. She placed a hand on his over his, light circles drawn around his knuckles and tracing his veins.

“Nothing can happen between us,” she reminded him. “You made sure of that.”

“I’m aware,” Dolohov swallowed, “however, hearts can still be captured without physical contact.”

“He’s in love with his wife. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

Dolohov said nothing. He didn’t even move. There was, however, a small tick of his lips upward that was short of a smile, not a smirk or sneer, but something that made Hermione feel uneasy. She didn’t show this, of course, and instead said, “Let’s not talk about Malfoy anymore. Did you find out anything interesting from Yaxley?”

“Nothing more than rumors of a possible set of rebels squatting some towns over,” he answered her. Dolohov released his pressure on the couch and walked around it to take up the space where Draco once was, albeit closer. “Nothing to truly be concerned about. I came home quite some time ago,” he casually added. “I went down to the interrogation room to see how things were going, but learned that you were otherwise…preoccupied.”

Hermione’s blood ran cold. She thanked Merlin that she had learned over the years to school her features, but her insides were a mess. Dolohov was like a wild dog if not tethered properly, and yes, she was one of the few people who could leash him. Her thoughts were running ragged knowing that he had been alone with Charlie. He didn’t have any personal feelings at stake when it came to Charlie. He didn’t care. He could torture him endlessly without a second thought. He could _kill_ him without a second thought.

With an imperceptible swallow, Hermione simply replied with an, “Oh. I haven’t had much luck with him, unfortunately. I hope you found out something useful. We’re going to run out of our best supplies at this rate.”

Dolohov laughed. At least that eased some of the tension. Hermione found herself smiling just the same and she felt a calm settle in her stomach when he reached for her hand and gently caressed it. “You’re right, but that won’t be a problem anymore.” The caressing stopped. Dolohov held Hermione’s hand in a fierce grip that sent a shot of pain up her arm. “I killed him.”

_I killed him._

Hermione wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to grab the wand protruding from the inside of the cloak he still wore and end his life. However, Draco had been right. She couldn’t let Dolohov know how much she was hurting even if deep down he knew it. Her life was on the line. More important than that, her _status_ was on the line. This wasn’t the time to buckle, and her companion was testing her limits with the worst and most inhumane bait possible.

“I hope you got something good out of him before you killed him,” Hermione said as calmly and neutrally as she could. “It’s not often that we capture someone who belongs to the Order.”

Dolohov regarded her intently, his eyes roaming every inch of her face and body to detect any sign of weakness. Once he appeared to be satisfied, the tension on Hermione’s hand lessened and the innocent petting continued.

“As a matter of fact, he did say something. Interestingly enough, he said that you would know what it meant.”

While still dying on the inside, Hermione’s primary emotion was now intrigue. With a brow raised she tilted her head to the side in confusion. “Is that so? What did he say?”

“Code Green.”

Hermione kept her head to one side, this time her brows furrowed, and her lips in a deep frown.

“Do you know what that means?”

“He told you what you wanted to hear.”

“Are you sure?” Dolohov prodded with a threat lingering in his tone. “If he told me the truth, and I find out that you lied, it will end very badly for you.”

“I may be many things, Antonin, but a liar isn’t one of them,” Hermione said firmly. “Besides, I’m not that foolish.”

Hermione suddenly rose from her seat, a hand outstretched, and urging him with her head. “It's late. Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

Dolohov liked to sleep in whenever possible. Those moments were quite precious to Hermione because those were the few hours in the day when she could be alone and partially forget who she spent a bulk of her time with and where.

Today, however, wasn't the day for peace and relaxation. Hermione woke up long before the sun was set to rise, dressed, and was pleasantly surprised to find Warwick outside of her bedroom. “I hope you weren’t out here long.”

Warwick fought off a blush and casually shrugged. “Maybe a little long.”

“You’re too good to me, Warwick,” Hermione praised. “Let’s get going. There isn’t time to waste.”

Warwick nodded and followed behind Hermione to the nearest fireplace. Had Dolohov wanted, he could have put a tracer on the fireplaces to keep tabs on where Hermione went, but her ring already did the trick. It made this morning’s trip dangerous, she must admit, but it was worth the risk. Besides, so long as she was back before Dolohov woke up, there would be no reason for him to be suspicious and wonder where she’d been.

Like most Death Eater homes, the fireplaces were connected to other Death Eaters’, and it was to her favorite Death Eater that Hermione and Warwick went. Warwick Flooed first, his wand out and ready in case it needed to be used. Per their arrangement, Hermione waited a few seconds before following and found Warwick still armed and urging her with the pull of his head for her to follow him.

A personal aide and her human wand, Hermione couldn’t thank Warwick enough. He had once been a Snatcher under Dolohov’s direction, and a poor one at that. It wasn't that he didn't have the skills, but the drive wasn’t there, and he had often faltered in his tasks because of reluctance. Many times had she saved him from a horrible torture with soothing words to calm the beast. That was how she and Warwick became friends. When she officially became Dolohov’s “wife,” he had asked her to name one thing she wanted from him —her freedom not being one of them. Hermione had asked for something that could help both her _and_ someone else and chose to request Warwick as her personal aide. That meant becoming a full-fledged Death Eater in order to have continuous access to their home and to provide her with whatever she requested that would ordinarily be denied to those of a lesser status. Warwick owed her his life, and he vowed to do anything she asked —even if it meant risking it all.

Hermione followed Warwick throughout the house that was larger by just a few rooms. A spell on Warwick’s end indicated that there were only two people in the home —expected, considering that it was still quite dark outside. The pair walked upstairs and headed towards the only bedroom that mattered. After making sure that the people the spell had picked up were in this room, Hermione gave Warwick the go-ahead to do what he needed to do. Hermione leaned her back against the wall next to the bedroom door Warwick had unlocked and gently pushed open. A shift in the air indicated a Silencing Charm, and she heard muffled movements, but had she not been listening for it, they would have been easily missed. Whatever had happened hadn’t lasted long, and some seconds later she felt the Silencing Charm lift and Warwick popped his head into the hall.

“You can come in now.”

“Thank you.”

Hermione entered the bedroom while Warwick followed and headed through a door that would lead to the bedroom’s master bath. Her eyes left him and settled onto the blond that was still asleep.

“That was one damn good Silencing Charm,” Hermione mused aloud. Draco was normally a light sleeper and would have woken up otherwise. He did, in fact, move in his sleep at the sound of her voice, but he only snuggled his pillow and pulled his blanket above his waist. She had to admit, he was quite cute while he slept.

Hermione stood at a distance from Draco’s bed and took out her wand. Pointing directly at his chest she clearly pronounced, “Rictusempra.”

Silver light erupted from her wand and hit the sleeping man, spreading throughout his body. First there was a twitch, then there was a moan, and soon Draco’s eyes were opening and a gut-bursting laugh had filled the room. He was confused, naturally, and amidst his hysterics his eyes latched onto the witch with her wand out and a very amused grin.

“Well, good morning.”

“Her- _ha ha ha!_ Wh- _ha ha ha!_ Why- _ha ha ha!_ Stop this!”

“Are you sure?” Hermione teased. “I think a good bout of laughter is a fine way to wake up.”

Draco continued his laughter, but even then his eyes were murderous. Hermione only had innocuous spells at her disposal, and so she had to be creative. Luckily, intelligence could oftentimes lend itself to creativity, and she suddenly recalled how she once used the Tickling Charm to crack the ribs of a young witch. A magnificent feat, Dolohov had told her, and he went out to buy her pearls the next day.

Hermione ended the charm and watched Draco sit up in bed, struggling to catch his breath. Without the laughter, he looked every bit like the Death Eater he presented himself to be when he wasn’t with her.

“What the hell was that for?!” Draco yelled. “What are you even doing here?”

“Charlie’s dead.”

Draco’s demeanor changed immediately at that, and he instantly forgot the stress his body had just been under. “I’m sorry. Considering the death of your friend, I’ll let slide the assault you provided me before dawn.”

Hermione half-smiled, but she dropped it before stowing her wand away and sighing deeply. All she wanted was a hug right now, but there was no getting it from the man before her. She opted to sit next to him instead.

“Antonin killed him while you and I spoke last night.”

“You mean he killed him _because_ we spoke.”

“Most likely,” Hermione bitterly replied. “That companion of mine can be quite jealous.”

“Will you ever call him your husband?”

“A pretty ring doesn’t make him my husband, thank you.”

“Sure,” Draco chuckled. A bad move as his sides still hurt, but it was worth the look of irritation on her face. “Are you and your not-husband still trying for a baby?” Hermione’s face instantly drained of color and she couldn’t look at him anymore. Draco’s humor at her expense died then and he, too, looked off into the distance. “I suppose he's still unaware of the anti-fertility potions you take every month.”

“He's just as unaware as your wife about your usage of potions to lower your sperm count,” Hermione countered. “You’re better off with a magi-vasectomy, you know.”

“As are you with a spell to permanently tie off your tubes.”

“Yes, well, until I can find a Healer that I can trust who’s also willing to walk into a Death Eater home, then anti-fertility potions it is. If we’re done talking about this, can I tell you what I rushed over to say before Antonin wakes up, please?”

“Your friend’s death wasn’t the reason?”

“It’s what he said before he died that’s the reason.” Hermione had to stand up for this and faced Draco with all the seriousness in the world. He was rapt with attention, but even he couldn’t keep his face together when she finally blurted out her words. “Draco… He said ‘Code Green.’”

Draco slid his legs from under his covers and set his feet on the ground. His hands gripped the edges of his bed, his dry throat seeing no relief no matter how many times he swallowed. “That’s what you’ve told me about, isn’t it? The one to—”

“—yes,” Hermione nodded, “so you understand how big this is. Charlie could’ve said anything. Hell, he could have lied. For him to say _that_ of all things has to mean something.”

“Merlin… Do you really think that they did it?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I would do anything to find out.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Draco said firmly. “Only the Order would have what you need to know about Code Green. You would have to find them.”

“I know, but it’s a risk that I’m willing to take. This… This is bigger than their lives.”

“Only say it if you mean it,” Draco warned. “For Code Green to work you need to find the Order, and if you do, they’ll die. No loopholes, no last-minute rescues, no heroics. _They will die._ ”

“They’ve been fighting a war knowing that death was an option,” Hermione replied impassively. With a deep breath and nod she reluctantly admitted, “They signed up to die. If Code Green is real and it works, then at least their deaths won’t be for nothing.”

“We’re in agreement then.”

“Yes. I just hope that in another life my friends forgive me.” Hermione frowned. It would be the only emotional release of the situation she’d allow, otherwise she would only cave in on herself. For the greater good or not, condemning your friends to die would take a toll on anyone. “I should go. The sun is going to be up soon and I can’t have Antonin tracking me.”

“Go then,” Draco urged, “but before you do, one more thing? I recall Astoria in bed with me last night, and she’s rarely out of bed this early.” Here Draco’s lips curled upwards, his head titled slightly to the left as he crossed his arms. “Where is she?”

Hermione mimicked Draco’s smile, but instead of addressing him, she merely called for Warwick. Draco turned his body to see his bathroom door opening and stepping out was Hermione’s Death Eater aide.

“Is everything taken care of?”

“Mrs. Malfoy’s memories have been properly modified,” Warwick reassured her. “I can set her back in bed if you like.”

“No, I’m sure her husband can take care of that,” Hermione replied, a quick glance shot at Draco whose brows were high on his forehead. “Have a good day, Draco.”

* * *

Voldemort was dead, but it didn’t feel that way. Hermione blamed all of the television she used to watch as a child with her parents, for they had shown her an unrealistic ending to horrors of the world. Movies often ended with the big bad guy getting killed and the celebrations, but they never showed what happened afterwards. There was still a cleanup to do, and that cleanup was never easy. For Hermione and her friends, Voldemort’s fall hadn’t been the end of it, and there had still been Death Eaters willing to carry on with their leader’s work because he had left behind key players in positions within the Ministry and elsewhere who were harder to get rid of than an infection.

Regardless of the difficulty, the Order was still getting it done. The Ministry was getting back on track, Death Eaters, known supporters, and Snatchers were being arrested left and right. It was good —until it wasn’t. Within a year everything had gone tits up, and two years after that Hermione had been captured in the midst of a battle, and her twelve-year journey had begun. She was thirty-four now, and if she was to die tomorrow the legacy that she would leave behind would paint her as a monster. She only hoped that today would mark the start of a change in history.

“I hate that I have to go to these,” Hermione whined as she attempted to brush her hair. She had just come out of the shower and her hair was no easy feat after water hit it —directly, shower steam, any form really. After finally giving up, she merely piled it into as elegant of a bun as possible. Makeup would come next —subtle, but noticeable. Sadly, appearances were everything.

“He likes to have you there,” Dolohov said as he stood next to the bureau where she sat. Among many things, he liked to watch her get ready. “Of all the non-Death Eaters _you_ get to sit at the table. I don’t know why you constantly complain.”

Hermione huffed and looked up at him. “You know why.”

Dolohov pursed his lips. Yes, he knew why. He supposed he understood, but after all this time, it was really something that she would have to get over. However, he was sure that her tainted heart would never let this go.

“I think we need to have a plan,” Hermione said suddenly as she applied a touch of blush to her cheeks. She couldn’t see Dolohov, but she knew that he was curious. With an imperceptible breath she continued, “We have a dead Order member and a meaningless confession. He’ll think that we failed after getting such a huge lead.”

“And you have a plan in mind, I assume?” Dolohov prodded. Again, Hermione kept her gaze ahead of her and in the mirror. She was applying lipstick now which masked the quiver her lips might have given.

“I think we should propose looking for the Order.”

Hermione had finished with her face. Her hair was neatly arrayed, and she had dressed nearly an hour ago. There was nothing left to distract herself with, and so she twisted herself on her seat and looked into Dolohov’s face. It was steely and hard, yet intrigued at the same time. He rested his hand on the side of her bureau and leaned slightly forward, his eyes narrowing in the process.

“Why on earth should we try to find them?”

Hermione hated when he looked at her this way. It was always a test, just like when he told her about Charlie’s death. It didn’t frighten her, no, because she knew how to work him. His go to was coercion while hers was seduction. Interestingly enough, they were both cut from the same mold. She placed her own hand over Dolohov’s, her forefinger tracing the veins in his hand.

“Because they’re plotting,” she said simply. “In the two years that we’ve been here, we haven’t seen a single Order member. Before that, there were barely any signs of them. So, why now? Something is happening, and we need to be ahead of it.”

Dolohov’s attention had wavered between Hermione’s face and her hand, but in the end his eyes had met hers and he gave a subtle nod before kissing her on the forehead and presenting her his arm. “I will bring it up to him. It’s worth investigating.”

* * *

Unless otherwise specified, every first Saturday of the month Death Eaters reported to Godric’s Hollow. The once beautiful and quaint muggle town had long ago descended into a decadent wizard’s cove. That’s not to say that it looked rundown. Far from it. Homes that had been either blown up or torn through had been repaired and now housed Death Eaters not stationed elsewhere and a few Snatchers. The lesser well-kept homes were the slave and torture houses. They kept the poor and unfortunate muggles, muggleborns, witches, and wizards used for target practice or pure boredom release. Not a spec of rubbish was found on the streets and all shrubbery were taken with great care. Truth be told, were not innocent people being tortured and killed for sport, discrimination wasn’t accepted and encouraged, and their tyrannical leader wasn’t the embodiment of evil, the world wouldn’t be so bad.

“Mrs. Dolohov,” Hermione was greeted once she and Dolohov had made it to their destination. She only ever heard the term when she was here among the heathens, but not from all of them. Despite having been given her ring from her companion long ago, some refused to accept that she was “one of them.” In a way they were right, of course. She could walk and talk like them, torture and kill like them, but she would never _be_ one of them. Regardless of how they felt, they still showed her the proper respect as Dolohov’s, not to mention one of their leader’s “preferred guests.”

The house in Godric’s Hollow still looked like a house. There were pictures on the walls. There was normal furniture. There was even a kettle in the kitchen with wisps of steam coming from the top. If Hermione didn’t know who lived here, she would think it belonged to an unsuspecting muggle. How she wished desperately that it was so.

Dolohov gently tugged on Hermione’s hand and led the way down to the basement. It was an addition to the house, and it was also the only indication that the home wasn’t normal. It spanned the entire size of the house, and from past experience Hermione knew that there were cells down here and a room for experimenting —much like at her own home. He did ask that she and Dolohov recreate it for him after all.

The basement led directly into a long hall that also had a hall to its left. To the left is where they went, and another left brought them to the meeting room that housed a long table big enough to fit twenty people. Hermione nodded to Draco who was at a distance and speaking with his uncle —Rodolphus. Still an awful human being, but Hermione was thankful that his hideous wife had been killed three years back. He seemed to have been more vicious with her by his side, but now resembled a less bloodthirsty individual without her spurring him on.

“Dolohov,” Theo bid with a head tilt. He turned to Hermione and did the same, except with a bigger smile, “Mrs. Dolohov. I heard you both made quite the catch a little while ago.”

“A dead end, unfortunately,” Dolohov answered.

Theo’s mouth fell into a tight clasp, and his eyes darted from Hermione to Dolohov and back to her again. Subtle it was, the softness of his eyes, but she knew that he was sorry. He, like Draco, was among the few who showed her sympathy in a way that others didn’t see. Unsurprisingly, it was of the Death Eater generation her age. She often wondered how many of them were part of this new regime because they truly wanted to be or because it foolish not to.

“Ah well,” Theo lazily shrugged. “The best of the rebels are often tight-lipped. There will be more where he came from. He won’t be pleased, though,” he added as he glanced at the head of the table.

“We have a way around that,” Hermione assured him. “Just you wait and see.”

Curiosity filled Theo’s face, but he said nothing and excused himself to take a seat at the table he had gestured to only moments ago. It was time that they all sat down, actually, and Hermione moved to her least favorite seat —second to the right of the head. Dolohov sat at their ring leader’s right, and Hermione, being his companion, sat to his right. Everyone else’s seats varied by who was there and simply the choice of the afternoon. Not Draco’s or Theo’s, however. They sat opposite Hermione and Dolohov.

It wasn’t long before everyone quieted down. A door opened and closed, and everyone looked in its direction as the owner of the home made his presence known. Hermione’s heart didn’t beat as loudly nor as hard as it used to whenever she saw him. On the contrary, it beat at a steady pace as a level of sadness overwhelmed her. That sadness, thankfully, was outweighed by the level of determination that it brought her to end the unforeseen monstrosity that neither her nor any member of the Order could have anticipated.

The mature, dark, and mischievous version of the person Hermione once knew sat down at the head of the table, and, as always, his eyes peered through glasses at men he used to run from, and men who were once classmates, and finally at her —the woman who used to be one of his best friends.

“Well,” Harry said as he leaned back in his chair and with a soft smile that seemed more threatening than welcoming. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not be able to post for a while, so Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and Happy New Year!!! Enjoy the cliffhanger 😁
> 
> -WP


	4. My Best Friend

They thought the war was over. They had all seen Voldemort drop dead and Harry was left standing. They still had a struggle to get through as there were still Death Eaters about, but they would manage. Every band of misfits needed a leader, and with theirs gone it was only a matter of time before the degenerates fell into chaos and the wizarding world could rebuild. Despite this, there had been one problem.

Harry wasn’t Harry.

Dumbledore, with all of his wisdom and second-hand knowledge, had planned it out incorrectly. Hermione tried not to blame him, because she doubted that even he could have fathom what would become of the Boy Who Lived when he had finished the game of chess Dumbledore had devised. Without the wrench thrown into the plan, it was quite good. Let Voldemort destroy his own soul so that Harry could take out the shell of a man that remained.

The problem, however, was that Harry wasn’t the ordinary horcrux. He had been made by mistake. Furthermore, unlike the diary, or the ring, or Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, Harry hadn’t been destroyed beyond repair. So, just what happened to the bits of Voldemort’s soul after he killed Harry in the forest? Hermione and the Order hadn’t been sure, and she still wasn’t, but she could only surmise that Voldemort’s soul, his essence, had manifested. It was a cancer that, due to improper and imperfect removal, had spread throughout Harry and merged with him.

In the months following Voldemort’s physical death, an insidious corruption had taken Harry captive. He began changing in front of everyone’s eyes, but so slow it had been, it was easy to brush off. They had just ended a war for Merlin’s sake! Of course, Harry would be moody. Of course, he may be short with everyone. Of course, he may be a little on the insensitive side. Of course, he may seem a bit…immoral?

It became clear that something was wrong with Harry nearly a year after the Battle of Hogwarts. There was an interrogation going on at the Ministry that Harry had been co-conducting with an Auror, but it went wrong. Hermione, Kingsley, and two other Aurors had been watching through a one-way mirror when Harry snapped. He had taken his wand and stunned the Auror and proceeded to torture the arrestee. Hermione and the others had burst in on him immediately, and Harry merely stood over the cowering man, his wand twirling in his fingers, and smiled.

_“I got bored,”_ had been his reply, and Aurors arrested him on the spot. No one had a clue as to what had triggered Harry, but the rounds of questioning that took place in the days after that had shed some horrifying light. Harry spoke of Voldemort and how he wasn’t gone. Parts of Voldemort had remained and he could _feel him._ Hermione still remembered that conversation and it made her shiver.

_“It’s like my nightmare all over again,” Harry said, a dreamy-like expression on his face. “Remember Hermione? When Mr. Weasley got attacked by that snake at the Ministry, and **I** was the snake. Well, I’m that snake again. This time, though, I think I like it…”_

It had been devastating, to say the least, to see what was happening to him, and the Order had a new mission to get whatever elements of Voldemort out of Harry. Unlike the original problem that had culminated in the Forbidden Forest, there was no soul to take out of him. It hadn’t merely latched onto Harry, but it had _fused_ with him. In the end, Harry still had the same personality, his memories, and quirks, but they were twisted. He was the better Voldemort and all the more horrifying because of it.

Harry had remained in Auror custody after the interrogation debacle, but Hermione and the Order had gotten wind of his escape from the Ministry holding cells about two weeks later. Apparently, he had used Legilimency to trick a guard into releasing him. That was when the Harry-era regime had begun. His knowledge of the muggle world had been a both blessing and a curse, and despite which Death Eaters had opposed him in the beginning, they all praised and feared him now. He had orchestrated a world in which they couldn’t lose, for unlike Voldemort, he wasn’t blinded by the need to win over a child. He didn’t feel the need to rid the world of every muggleborn or muggle because it was a fruitless effort and a waste of time. Why kill free labor? Harry saw the bigger picture, and the moment he had gotten a foothold, he had implanted trusted half-bloods who knew enough about muggles to blend in where necessary —police, schools, and various levels of government. Sleeper agents, if you will, who had used whatever magic necessary to keep muggles controlled and unaware. When the wizarding battle eventually spilled out into the muggle world (so much so that there was no denying it) the muggles who sought help had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Go to the police? The head chief was a witch. Demand help from the Parliament? A horde of witches and wizards were there too. The muggle world had been infiltrated, and there was nothing to do except live, flee, or fight.

Today, Harry commanded both wizarding and muggle England, France, Ireland, Scotland, and Italy. Russia was pretty much his, and the States were an active battleground. Hermione had known that the fight this time around wasn’t going to be easy, but after all of these years she still had hope. It had waned over time, but Code Green had restored it. The Order had found a way to save Harry, and she was going to see it through.

“How are the Russians behaving?” Harry asked casually. His attention was focused on Rowle near the end of the table. He was in charge of gaining and keeping the foothold there.

“A win, I’d say,” Rowle smiled. “Every major city has a trusted Death Eater leading it with lower Death Eaters and Snatchers to patrol and keep tabs. The occasional band of rebels pop up, but nothing that can’t be squashed immediately. Russia is yours, my lord.”

“Excellent news. I hope to hear the same thing across the seas sooner rather than later.” Harry leaned to his right so that he could gaze straight on to his left. “Rosier, how are those pesky Americans?”

Hermione could tell that Rosier was nervous. He wasn’t like his father, Evan Rosier, who had been killed a few years ago. Harry had placed him and several other Death Eaters in the United States —not only for silent control, but also for the eventual uprising. Rosier had been designated the spokesperson of the US-based team whenever the monthly meetings occurred. Hermione was quite sure that his teammates had forced him into it. He was the youngest of his group at twenty-eight, and she supposed they thought that it was better if _he_ be tortured should there be bad news to be said.

Rosier swallowed, but picked up his chin to make up for it. It didn’t work, so far as Hermione could see, for Harry’s eyes narrowed at Rosier’s movement. “The Americans are stronger than we anticipated. It’s also a large country so—”

“—Do you know what the population of the United States is?” Harry suddenly asked. Rosier was caught off guard, but, luckily for him, it wasn’t a question that was meant to be answered. “The States have roughly 300 million people living in it. Statistics show that for every ten muggles, there’s one wizard. That means there are 30 million wizards living in the US. Not all of those wizards will turn to our side, of course, but let’s say that a third of them do. That’s ten million wizards at your disposal. As for the muggles, not all of them are foolish, and let’s say that a third of them decide to help us rein in their fellow man. That’s 90 million muggles. You have 100 million followers at your disposal, Rosier, against 200 million.

‘Two-to-one odds aren’t very comforting, I know, but here are a few more numbers for you. A third of those muggles will fight and die. Of what’s left, a third of them will hide. And of what’s left that, they will comply. The same division works for the remainder of wizards who are too full of pride to convert to our ways. In the end, the odds are in your favor, Rosier,” Harry said sternly. “Next month I expect to hear better news.”

Harry’s attention abruptly turned from Rosier then, and a good thing too, considering that Rosier had let out the deepest exhale of his life. Hermione thought the same thing as she always did when she saw him: _Poor thing is going to die…_ At least it wasn’t today. Harry was now focused to his right —on her and Dolohov.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” Harry grinned. “I heard you both captured a former associate of mine. How is that going?”

“He’s dead,” Dolohov said simply. “He endured numerous bouts of torture, but in the end he was useless.”

“No Order member is useless,” Harry countered. “I know those people, and they’re anything but. You, however, may just fit the bill considering that you let a prime target succumb to death. And I _know_ that it was you, because I doubt our Hermione would have let you do it.”

“My lord, I—” Dolohov halted his words immediately when Harry drew his wand, its tip nearly touching his nose. A million thoughts ran through Hermione’s mind, one of which being that if Dolohov was killed, she could flee. The other (and the most convincing) was what prompted her to break the rules.

“I killed him,” Hermione lied. Everyone’s eyes drifted to her in that moment. She knew that Draco’s own thoughts must be spiraling. Dolohov was probably also at a loss. She was only concentrating on one man at the moment, and while Harry’s wand didn’t move, his attention did.

“You?”

“Antonin put me in charge of Charlie Weasley’s torture and I knew that there was nothing to be gained from him. As with you, he and I were former associates. I think I would have known if he was worth keeping alive.”

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his wand still aimed at Dolohov, and his stare unblinking and unwavering. His tongue swiped his upper lip before he finally lowered his wand arm and turned his focus back to Dolohov. “You’re lucky I like your wife.” He kicked in a laugh then sat back comfortably in his chair. “I hope you have other news for me, because as of now I’m very disappointed.”

“I do have some other news,” Dolohov spoke. “A Plan B, if you will.”

“Go on.”

“Signs of the Order have been minimal over the years. I think that seeing one of them indicates a possible plotting.”

“Is that so?” Harry mused. Like an enthusiastic toddler or a teacher’s pet, Dolohov nodded vigorously in response.

“I think we should look for them. Where there is one Order member, there are more.”

Harry stroked his beard. Out of all of the changes that had taken over him, Hermione oftentimes focused on the trivial, and one of those things was his beard. She tried so hard to think of him as the boy she grew up with, but too many things were no longer the same.

“Fine,” Harry announced eventually. “I’m sure with your skillset you’ll be able to do the seemingly impossible.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Dolohov smiled. “I’ll find —”

“—No, not you,” Harry curtly interrupted. “I meant _her._ ”

Hermione couldn’t help the widening of her eyes. Whispers washed over the table, and although the blood rush to the ears kept her from hearing what they were saying, she was sure she knew what the gasps were about.

_He chose **her?**_

_Why would he give such a task to her?_

_Favoritism._

_What is he thinking?_

“Me?” Hermione said, brows furrowed. “Forgive me, but, I’m not a Death Eater. You don’t give tasks like these to Death Eaters.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry concurred. “However, this is a special case that requires a certain brand of intelligence and familiarity. You’ll assemble a team and hunt the Order down. Might I suggest a quiet approach? An obvious hunt may drive them back underground.”

Hermione could do nothing but agree and hide her hands under the table so that he didn’t see them shaking. She wanted to find her friends, yes, but she didn’t want to be the one to do it. That’s not to say that she wouldn’t. The bigger picture was still a priority, even if the means by which to get it done made her feel sick. However, there was a bright side to everything, and perhaps, if played correctly, she could work her team to her advantage.

The rest of the meeting was Harry praising and scolding those whom he saw fit. Hermione was more than happy when it was over (more so than usual), and she did her best to ignore two pairs of eyes as she gathered her things. She was so focused on her task that she almost didn’t hear when Harry had addressed her after the rest of the Death Eaters had gone.

“Hermione, can I speak with you before you go? Alone,” Harry added while looking straight at Dolohov. The older man’s back straightened and he nodded.

“I’ll wait for you in the hall,” Dolohov said to Hermione, gave one last glance at Harry, and then left.

The sound of the door closing echoed in the room. Hermione decided to stand behind her chair while Harry chose to sit on the edge of the table. They remained like that for several seconds, both maintaining eye contact, occasionally breaking it to observe the other’s face and body language. Harry eventually broke the silence and unconscious power struggle with a direct statement.

“I don’t have to read your mind to know that you didn’t kill Charlie. Not that I could,” he added with a soft smile. It was a smile that reminded Hermione of her friendship with him, but she did her best to avoid looking at his mouth.

“Oh no, you could,” Hermione countered. “You just won’t because it’ll hurt me.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Digging into the mind of an Occlumens, while difficult, isn’t impossible. Exhausting for the prober, excruciatingly painful for the probed. Regardless, that’s not what I’m most concerned with.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Concerned?”

“The plan to go after the Order,” he clarified. “It wasn’t Dolohov’s idea, and I know this because he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about them. That said, I’m simply wondering why you would want to condemn our friends to a certain death.”

“I’ve been torturing and killing people for years,” Hermione scoffed. “What makes you think this would be any different?”

“Oh, Hermione…” Harry lifted himself from off of the table and stood directly in front of her. It didn’t take long for him to let his fingers caress her cheek, her chin held gently in his hand. “Sometimes I think you forget that despite the little tweaks of my mindset, I’m still your best friend. I know how you think and what you feel. And I know that the thought of seeing your friends dead is killing you inside. Tell me why you want to do this.”

“…I think about our friends daily. They’re fighting a war that’s already over, and knowing that they’re out there doesn’t make things easier for me.”

“And killing them would?”

“Making them see reason would,” Hermione corrected. “I did it. My dignity may be down the shithole, but at least I have a home and three full meals a day. There are times to fight and times to concede. It’s been years, and they need to concede.”

“Hmm.” Harry released her chin and folded his arms over his chest. Hermione knew that if she was any other person, he would have dived into her mind to find out the root of the matter. The only good thing about this was that he had been right. In the twisted mess of his personality, the core elements of him was _still_ Harry. He couldn’t harm her even if he wanted to.

“What if they don’t concede?”

“Then they’ll die,” she said simply. “I won’t like it, and it’ll pain me, but it is what it is.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We could always keep them as torture puppets,” Harry shrugged. “That way they’ll be alive and out of our hair. A win-win.”

“Of course,” Hermione blandly replied. “Is there anything else that you want from me or may I go now? Antonin is waiting.”

Harry took a moment to look towards the door where he knew Dolohov was waiting and frowned. “My offer to kill him for you still stands, you know,” he said casually, his eyes still trained on the door. “I wouldn’t keep you trapped like he does.”

“Were you the real Harry, I would have said yes,” she boldly answered him. So bold, in fact, that he turned to look at her. “You may look like him and sound like him, but you will never be him. Not truly.”

“And yet I’m as close as you’ll ever get to having him,” Harry smiled. “Go now. As you’ve said, there’s someone waiting on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never did a Dark Harry before, but I think I like it! :)
> 
> Happy New Year!
> 
> -WP


	5. Recruitment

The journey home was a quiet one. Hermione was lost in her thoughts, but it appeared that Dolohov was the same. Had he not been, he would have tried to engage her in conversation when he saw that she was distracted. It wasn't until they had made it home, clothes exchanged for night wear, that the barrier had been broken.

“You lied for me.”

Hermione had just crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her waist just as Dolohov came out of the bathroom. His facial expression was one that she wasn't used to seeing because it was laced with concern. It made his faint crows feet and laugh lines deepen, but despite the insinuation, they made him seem distinguished.

“I did, yes.”

“Why would you do that?” Dolohov walked quickly around the bed to her side, opened his mouth, closed it, and ran his hands over his face before blurting out, “He could have killed you for Merlin’s sake!”

“He wasn’t going to kill me, Antonin,” Hermione calmly replied to his outburst. “Besides, it was more likely that he was going to kill you instead.”

“You did it to save my life.”

Hermione didn't confirm our deny, but her silence was answer enough. Dolohov’s emotions had shifted yet again, but this time it was of a lighter variety.

“Can I tease you now or later?”

“Oh, please, don’t start,” Hermione groaned, but it was too late, and her companion was parading about the bedroom in joyous spirits with a large smile as the taunting began.

“Miss Hermione Granger _cares_ for a Death Eater! She—”

“—Antonin,—”

“—laid down her life to save him, and—”

“—really, please, I—”

“—to keep him in her life.”

“ _Stop it!_ ” Hermione shouted, and Dolohov stopped in his tracks. He eyed the witch who was completely red in the face, lips thinned, the bedsheets clutched in a death grip, and her eyes, while not shedding tears, were poised and ready.

Dolohov took a deep breath, nodding to himself as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pajama bottoms. “Right. I forgot that it was a sore spot for you to love me.”

There went another emotion that was rarely seen on him. Pain. Hermione could feel her own slip away, and she so desperately wanted to say something, but what could she? He was right. Dolohov was a Death Eater. She had been his prisoner. Now she was essentially his wife as though the past didn't happen. Even now Hermione wouldn't dare say that she loved him. Her pride and dignity may be tarnished with torture and death, but loving her captor was the ultimate defilement. Feeling it versus saying it out loud were two different things, right?

Regardless of what Hermione felt, the night was already made awkward and there was no turning back. Dolohov slept with his back turned against her, and she felt her heart break.

* * *

Hermione woke up early the next day and headed down to the kitchen. By the time she made it back to her bedroom Dolohov was awake, but that was okay. She wanted him up anyway and walked over to his side of the bed with a tray of food in her hands. Any sleepiness was erased from his face as he examined what was now an elaborate meal placed over his legs.

“What is this?”

“Your favorite, of course. It’s…an apology breakfast.”

Dolohov smiled softly, perhaps a little sadly, but it was a far better mood than last night. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. The circumstances that have brought us together are…horrendous, to say the least. I shouldn’t expect you to care about me, much less love me.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t,” Hermione agreed boldly, but the wringing of her hands displayed her anxiety. “Our situation is too complicated for words, but…there _is_ something there. Regardless, the fact of the matter is that you were right. I couldn’t let you die last night. I can’t say that I love you, but I do care about you. So, are you going to eat or not?”

“We,” he corrected as he patted the space on the bed next to him, “and yes. You've clearly gone overboard in your guilt, and I certainly can't eat all of this by myself.”

Hermione fought the rouge in her cheeks, but complied and sat beside him so that they could eat. Moments like these made her forget that there was a lopsided war going on. They were just people having breakfast. _Normal_ _people_. Unfortunately, she could always count on Dolohov to remind her of the world’s cruelties.

“I know that you were only given your assignment last night, but have you given any thoughts to your team?” Dolohov asked.

Hermione was mid-chew, but her actions slowed as she glanced over at him. His eyes were focused on their shared plate, his face calm and void of the curiosity his words had pronounced. “You’re fishing. Just ask me whether or not I’ve decided to add _you_ to it. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?

Dolohov barely moved, but it was enough to let her know that he was looking at her, if only from his periphery. She kept her chuckle internally, but answered him regardless. “While this may offend you, no, I’m not including you on my hunting team.” Hermione paused to see his reaction which, as expected, included a touch of surprise. This time she let her chuckle fly and turn into a full laugh. “Oh, don’t look like a hurt schoolboy. My reasoning for not including you is sound.”

“Is it?” he answered gruffly.

“Yes, and _that_ is the reason why,” Hermione said firmly. “You, love, have a temper problem. You’re impulsive and rash, and for an operation that requires tact and patience I can’t use someone like you. Your special brand of ‘kill first and ask questions later’ would be detrimental.”

“Well, do be honest,” Dolohov snorted as he stuffed a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Am I wrong?” she countered. When he didn’t answer, Hermione took that as admission. “If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t have included you on my mission even if you were less… _direct_ with your methods.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes,” Hermione laughed as she ran a hand through his hair. It made his bedhead look even more ruffled than it already had been, but it gave him a boyish look. His pouting at her actions merely added to the picture. “The people I’m going after are my friends and classmates. Who better to make up my task force than my other, more Death Eater inclined, classmates?”

Dolohov huffed. “You mean Malfoy.”

“I said class _mates_. Plural. He’s not the only one who I went to school with. We’ve spent years learning and fighting each other to know and recognize the Order’s weaknesses and maneuverings. We have an advantage this way.”

Dolohov was silent for a moment. His lips parted for a rebuttal, but nothing came, and Hermione regarded him intently as he moved the tray of food towards the end of the bed. A squeal from her came next when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her onto his lap.

“Why do you infuriate me by being right?” he asked softly, his nose nuzzling her neck. Hermione sighed happily, her hands travelling up his arms before wrapping around him.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Dolohov pulled back slightly before kissing her both on the forehead and lips. “Do what you must. If you need anything, know that I’ll always be there.”

“I know. And, as a trade-off, I’ll let you do what you want with anyone we have no use of. What do you say?”

“I think that’s a very lovely trade-off indeed.”

* * *

Hermione spent the next few days determining who would be best suited for her mission. It was difficult because she needed people who would not only be exceptional at the job, but those who would adhere to her leadership and also be willing to take part in the ulterior motive that drove her suggestion to seek out the Order in the first place. It was no doubt that not all of whom she picked would fall into the latter category, nor did she want them to. Those individuals would mask the true purpose of their task. Still, she needed to be mindful of those she could trust and those who would serve as a distraction.

Within six days, Hermione had finalized her list, and today she would begin making house calls. Dolohov had offered to go with her, but she shot him down (as politely as she could) because she didn’t want her potential team to think that he was in it. Warwick was eager to tag along, but Hermione turned him away as well. Warwick was seen by many as her bodyguard rather than the glorified servant that he was, and the last thing that she wanted was to be seen as incompetent. She could handle herself and going alone would further prove that point.

The first stop on her list was Adrian Pucey. Hermione didn’t have much recollection of him during Hogwarts as he had been two years ahead of her. What she knew of him now was that he was a quiet Death Eater. He did his tasks quickly and efficiently but with very little fanfare. She likened him to a person who despised their job but did their best to avoid any unnecessary scrutiny. He was just the type of Death Eater that she needed.

While Hermione could have Flooed to Adrian’s house, considering that she didn’t frequent with him often, it was best that she did the polite thing and come by the front door. Unexpectedly, she wasn’t met with a house elf and ended up speaking with Adrian right from the start.

“Mrs. Dolohov,” Adrian greeted in surprise. Hermione gently smiled at him. He was among the few that allowed the marital title to slip pass his lips.

“Pucey,” she cordially replied, “although I hope that you don’t mind if I called you ‘Adrian’ in exchange for my own first name?”

“Of course, of course,” he nodded. “Uh… Dolohov isn’t with you?”

“No.” Hermione did her best not to sound as disgruntled as she truly felt. Aside from the archaic pureblood rules on women, Dolohov had made it perfectly clear how he felt about other men around her. However, with a task solely under her control, this would be a necessity and both her companion and those she recruited would have to get over it. “May I come in?”

Adrian seemed at a loss for words, but he fumbled with his “Yes, yes, please do,” before stepping aside and letting Hermione in. His home was a modest two-level house and suited the demeanor she had deduced for him. It actually reminded her of Godric’s Hollow. Warm. Comforting. Normal. It could have used a bit of tidying up, however, and Adrian seemed to know that as he began picking up discarded newspapers and empty glasses and liquor bottles. Hermione began to wonder if his disheveled home and appearance was just from a bad night or several.

“What can I help you with?” Adrian asked. It was out of the bright sun which highlighted his cheeks that Hermione could tell he was blushing. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was in a bath robe. He was doing his best to keep his front together without the sash.

“I’m surprised you haven’t guessed. You were at the meeting last week.”

“Yes, I was. What of it?”

“Well, as you and everyone else heard, Harry put me in charge in finding the Order. I’m assembling a team, and I’d like for you to be part of it.”

Adrian’s grip on the front of his robe loosened, but he quickly pulled it together before Hermione could see anything good. Pity. “I see. I’m flattered, Hermione, but there are other Death Eaters better than me.”

“That’s just it, I don’t want better. I want someone committed, someone who’s able to do the work, and someone who won't have a problem taking orders from Dolohov’s witch.”

Adrian’s brow cocked in the air as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and an amused grin on his face. Had Hermione not been so focused on what she was there for, nor fully aware that she would be sentencing Adrian to a certain death, she may have had to have a go at the man. Unkempt suited him.

“You have interesting criteria. I'm curious as to who else you’re planning on inviting to be on your hunting party.”

“Well, I'm planning to see Cassius Warrington after I'm done here.”

“Cassius?” Adrian scoffed and then laughed. “You do realize that he doesn't care much for you?”

“Two out of three isn’t bad,” Hermione shrugged. “So? Are you in or are you out? "

“Do I have a choice?”

“Oh, there's always a choice. What you should be really asking yourself is whether your choice is a good or bad one.”

Adrian chuckled to himself before running a hand through his hair and eventually tilting his head in concession. “Alright, I’ll join you.”

“Good,” Hermione grinned. “I’ll let you know when the first meeting is.”

* * *

Adrian had been easy, as predicted, but Cassius would be another matter. As Adrian had alluded to, Cassius wasn’t exactly her biggest fan. For starters, he had been on the Inquistorial Squad during Hogwarts and had taken quite the pleasure in making her and her friends’ lives miserable. It had been a highlight knowing that he had graduated once she had made it to her Sixth Year —not that it had mattered much as she had been preoccupied otherwise. While he didn’t become a Death Eater back then and was just as scared as anyone else, he had rightly earned the title now. Much like Harry had said to Rosier when explaining the dynamics of the US battleground, it was the same everywhere. You either fought, hid, complied, or joined. Cassius was a joiner because he knew it was better to be on the side of power.

He was also a prick.

Adrian was gracious enough to let Hermione Floo from his house. She waved goodbye as the flames overtook her, and he did the same, forgetting his robe, and hurriedly turned around once he caught himself. Hermione ended up inhaling a bunch of soot as she laughed and coughed like an asthmatic once she tumbled out of Cassius’ fireplace. Her choking seemed to be notification enough for Cassius as she heard him clear his throat by the doorway.

Unlike Adrian, Cassius was clean, pristine, and obnoxiously perfect. To be frank, he was the pre-war, unmarried version of Draco. No humility. Uncensored. Selfish. Arrogant. Hermione could spend her whole life without being anywhere near this man, but despite his awful characteristics, he was still a good Death Eater. He could be dropped in the middle of the forest with no indication of how to escape and _still_ make it out of there. That’s what made him a good hunter and why she wanted him.

“Dolohov knows better than to just go traipsing through someone’s house,” Cassius drawled. Hermione was already dreading this.

“He isn’t here,” Hermione blandly replied. “I came on my own to see you.”

“Really? What for? Wait… No…” Cassius took a step further into the room —a lovely parlor room that suited a grand duchess rather than an ordinary man. Granted, he did consider himself more than ordinary, so, she supposed it fit him fine. “This isn’t about your task, is it?”

“You’re a quick one. Good for you. Yes, this is about my task, and I want you on my team.”

“Is that so? How interesting…”

Hermione was slowly losing her patience and rethinking this move, but she would consider it an assault on her resolve to turn back now. Even as Cassius began to circle her like a vulture and eyeing her as he went.

“Yes or no, Cassius. I do have other stops to make.” Hermione tapped her fingers in frustration and impatience as he made one more round before stopping in front of her. He was wearing a smirk that looked far more dashing on a blond rather than a brunet.

“You don’t have much patience, do you?” Cassius asked as he swiped his tongue over his upper lip. It was very Cormac-esque and made the witch want to hurl. “You’ll need that if you plan to find the Order.”

“Oh, I have plenty of patience, just very little for you,” she smugly answered. “That begs the question of whether you’ll be able to effectively follow leadership —mine in particular. I’ll need you to play nice.”

“Or what?” he snorted. “You’ll set your husband on me?”

“No. I’ll put a Leg-Locker curse on you and leave you hovering upside down. It would be interesting to see just how long you’d live with all that blood rushing to your head.”

Cassius actually seemed caught off-guard. Perhaps it had been the readiness with which she had said it. Of course, Hermione hadn’t needed any time to think of just what she’d do to him, for she had several scenarios in mind if she ever became pushed close enough to the edge.

“Potter wouldn’t take kindly to you killing his Death Eaters.”

“I think you’re underestimating how much he likes me more than you.”

Cassius laughed, a hand caressing his hairless chin as he visibly mused over her comments before his mouth formed a thin line and his arms dropped to his sides. “You’re such a ballsy little witch. Dolohov may like his women with a fire under their arse, but I prefer my women a bit more…docile and submissive.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not your woman then,” Hermione huffed. “Your answer?”

“I’ll join —with the understanding that I’ll be making your life hell every step of the way.”

“Then I hope you understand this.”

Cassius was confused for all of one second before Hermione brandished her wand and pointed it at his legs. With a quick utterance of the correct spell, his legs were stuck together like glue. With another spell and a wand flourish, he was on the floor, on his back, with his ankles gently raised in the air —and getting higher.

“What the hell, Granger?!”

Hermione grinned before stowing her wand away and casually walking to Cassius’ side and looked down on him. “I wasn’t joking about letting the blood settle to the top of your noggin. However, as I mentioned previously, I have other stops to make. In the meantime, your legs are going to lift a little higher every minute until you’re fully suspended. Let’s see if you’re still alive when I’m finished and we can move forward from there.”

Hermione straightened her back and headed to the fireplace, completely ignoring Cassius’ curses and shouts at her to let him out of the curse. Naturally, she said nothing, and merely stepped into the fireplace and watched as his feet hovered higher in the air. While a small part of her hoped he died, the largest part of her merely wanted him to suffer. Considering that she had five more Death Eaters to see, he certainly won’t be feeling well by the time she returned.

* * *

By the time Hermione had gone back to see Cassius, he was barely conscious. She didn’t bother reviving him after releasing him from her magic, but she did leave a note on his chest informing him to be on the lookout for her owl for the first meeting. She had one more stop to make before heading home, and it was to see Draco. She hadn’t heard from him since receiving her task, and while she knew he wasn’t dead, it was still a cause for concern.

On the other end of the fireplace Hermione found Astoria leaving the room. The brunette cursed that the lady of the house didn't move fast enough, but regardless, here they were. It wasn't that Hermione didn’t like her. On the contrary, Astoria was a pleasure compared to the other witches many of the Death Eaters were married to. What made Astoria more on the “annoying side” were her very pureblood, social elite mannerisms that made Hermione want to gag. Unfortunately, Astoria harbored a dislike towards her that would only be remedied if Draco stopped being her friend. Like Dolohov, she also didn’t take kindly to their friendship.

“Here to see my husband, I wager,” Astoria said curtly. While not one to normally prod a dangerous animal, Hermione was feeling impish.

“Well, I’m certainly not here to see you,” she grinned. “May I trouble you to ask where he is?”

“You’re just as familiar with my home as I am,” Astoria replied hotly with a flare of her nostrils. “I'm sure you can find him on your own.”

Hermione watched the witch storm off. Possessive and quick to anger, those qualities were so Dolohov-esque it was almost scary. Pushing those thoughts away from her, Hermione did venture a guess as to where Draco was and found him in his study. What she didn’t expect, however, was to be immediately hit with the strong smell of alcohol.

“Merlin, Draco, the sun has barely set,” Hermione tutted as she closed the door after her.

“Well, look who’s still alive,” Draco scoffed as he cast a lazy gaze at her before continuing to watch the fireplace roaring. Hermione was taken aback at the greeting, but excused his demeanor as she spied the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey on the desk next to him.

“Nice to see you too. What’s got your knickers in a knot?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just surprised to see you is all. I haven’t heard from you in a week, so, naturally, I assumed you to be ignoring me.”

“Ignoring you? That, Draco, would insinuate that I would have had to receive something from _you_ to ignore. You haven’t reached out to me either, you know,” Hermione huffed. She sat on the edge of the desk Draco was next to and snatched up the liquor bottle his hand was aiming for. The look he gave her was scorching, but she ignored it and took a large swig. “I’ve been busy recruiting and planning.”

“Right.” Draco slouched in his chair. “You have a hunt to go on. Fan- _fucking_ -tasking.”

“Excuse me, last I checked you were on board with me trying to find the Order.”

“Yes, but not with you throwing yourself under the Knight Bus!” Draco hastily sat up and raised an accusatory finger in her direction. “You lied to Potter’s face and told him that you killed Weasley. He could’ve killed you! Had I not taught you Occlumency, he would’ve known it and offed you on the spot!”

Hermione frowned. She had the decency to cast her gaze to the floor, the liquor bottle held neatly between her fingers as she gently swung it side to side. Curious how he had now become the second man in her life to scold her for her actions. “He didn’t have to look into my mind to know that I was lying.”

Draco almost slipped off his chair. “He knew?”

“He knew.”

“Huh. Well, that’s favoritism for you.”

“Looks so,” Hermione shrugged. “Is your drunken bitch fit over now?”

“Yeah.” Draco lifted his hand and gestured to the bottle still in her hand. “Can I have that back?”

“Sure.” Hermione didn't immediately hand it over. Instead, she tipped the bottle to her mouth and gulped down the rest of the alcohol inside before turning over the bottle to him. Draco grumbled mercilessly. “You’ve clearly had enough. Besides, I’d like to get this informal invitation to my hunting party over with. So—”

“No,” he abruptly interrupted. Hermione’s lips remained poised for the rest of her statement, but closed her mouth as her eyes furrowed.

“No? No for what?”

Draco took a deep breath, slouching onto his chair as he rubbed his hands over his face. When he finally let his hands fall to his lap, he looked at her. For the first time, Hermione truly saw him, and she realized that it wasn’t just the alcohol that painted a rough picture of her friend. His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled, and the shadow under his eyes weren’t due to the fireplace’s flames casting an unflattering light. Draco must not have been sleeping well.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Draco smiled grimly. “Are babies ever wrong?”

Hermione’s heart stopped. She knew that she had heard correctly, but it still left a buzzing in her ears. Of course, it could have been the liquor she had downed only minutes before. Even then…

“Told you a magi-vasectomy would have been better,” Hermione said softly. Perhaps it was in poor taste, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Draco merely nodded in agreement.

“I do want to help you, but it’s going to be dangerous. Normally, that wouldn’t faze me, but the thought of possibly dying with a baby on the way, I just—”

“—I get it. You don’t want your child to grow up without a father, and I completely respect that. While you won’t be helping me directly, I hope I can still bounce some ideas off of you?”

Draco smiled for real this time and gave a firm nod. “Of course. Any ideas you want to talk about now?”

“In your condition?” Hermione chuckled. “I don’t need a functional drunk for help. That said, I’ll leave you to sober up.”

Hermione bid Draco farewell and quickly left his home. Contrary to what she had said to Draco, he was actually quick on his feet, drunk or not. She just couldn’t bare to be around him having just found out that he was going to be a father. Over these past few years, she had managed to build up a picture of Draco being just hers. Obviously, and foolishly, she had forgotten that wasn’t the case. She had fully expected him to be by her side through this Code Green endeavor, but now that he wouldn’t be part of it, she felt like she was walking into a war zone without her wand.

“As if I hadn’t done that before,” Hermione murmured to herself as she thought of her own, limited wand.

Hermione sighed as she walked down the hall. She had a long day, she was tired, and she was hungry. Dolohov was most likely changing his clothes for dinner and she would do the same, but muffled voices from in the foyer caught her attention. Instead of turning into her bedroom, Hermione headed towards the stairs and looked down to see Rabastan and a random Snatcher heading towards the cells. In between them, squirming and crying, was a beaten woman.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hermione demanded from the top of the stairs. The pair halted their movements. Hermione wished that the woman had too. She may have paused to see where the voice had come from, but having seen another human being seemed to have sparked something in her.

Hermione slowly walked down the stairs; her eyes focused solely on the woman. She barely registered Rabastan’s, “We’re just going to do a little interrogation,” because the scene before her was familiar in every way. The way the witch or muggle was struggling between her captors. Her disheveled clothing. The dirt on her skin. The cuts and bruises. She had put up a fight, that much was certain, but now she had reached the end of the line. Hermione remembered, quite vividly, when she realized that she, too, had come to the heinous precipice of her life. She had been captured and dragged away from battle to be “interrogated.” The only thing was that no questions had ever been asked unless it was to tauntingly inquire if she liked it.

While that awful day was one pushed so far down in her memories, Hermione was now seeing from the outside what her face must have looked like, the smell of fear so prevalent, and the glimmer of hope and tears shining in her eyes. There were many things that Hermione wished she could say and do at this moment, but like many other matters in this cruel world, this was no time to fold.

“This isn’t a whorehouse,” Hermione said boldly, glaring at Rabastan and the Snatcher in turn. Her gaze landed on the woman briefly —long enough to burn her image onto her hell-bound soul. “Take her somewhere else.”

Hermione said nothing more and retreated up the stairs. The crying turned to screaming before the foyer was silenced by the sound of Floo flames. A strong Sleeping Draught and a bottle of Dreamless Sleep would be needed tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, how I love Hermione commanding Death Eaters so much. The ending with that poor girl though... *shudder*
> 
> -WP

**Author's Note:**

> When my imagination hits, I just have to roll with it guys. Sorry for another WIP LOL.
> 
> Also, please note that as I'm writing this, secondary pairings (in this case DH) may change, and if so, I'll add the potential pairing as I go along. I may also throw in some new tags. My mind has this fic going several different directions in terms of who Hermione eventually ends up with, so I guess it'll be a ride for all of us :D.
> 
> -WP


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